I shrug. "Sure. Don't suppose you happen to have anything stronger on you, though?"

It's a distinct possibility. Let's get those refills and take a walk.

It's stupid even to consider taking a walk with this guy. Like I care.

I glance toward Mick, who is now in the truck with Madison, filling the cab with smoke. I'm so taking a walk. With a complete stranger.

107.

We Wander into the Woods Sit on a big stump, slurping foamy beer.

He's cute, really cute. So what if he's not much for words? He reaches into his jeans pocket, digging for treasure. Maybe I'll dig in there later myself. Meanwhile, I'll content myself with the giant fatty he lights. The pot is the same as (or very similar to) Mick's.

"So..." I cough out a big hit. "You and Mick share a connection, huh?"

Something like that.

He laughs.

Let's just say we move in mutual circles.

He draws in a long, deep lungful.

I move a little closer, like I can't quite reach the joint. "Since we're sharing a hooter, can we, like, share names?"

The name's Ty. I know who you are.

I saw you on television tonight.

If he says my mom is hot, I'll kill him.

"Jeez, man. Did everybody just happen to watch the fucking news tonight?"

What? Did I say something wrong?

Now he scoots closer. Looks into my eyes.

Should I apologize?

108.

The Guy Knows How To apologize, for sure. He reaches across the short distance between us, pulls me right into him, kisses me with unexpected hunger. In the time it takes me to react to that, decide whether or not to invite more, he already has my top button unbuttoned. His hands want to go under the fabric, insist on it, in fact. I should say no. Need to say no. "W-wait," I try, but no little bit of me wants to stop and Ty intuits all of that. He doesn't stop, and I don't try to make him. And it isn't long before I throw every ounce of caution to the nonexistent wind. With only a fleeting thought of Mick, I give in to this insane desire to know this not-quite-stranger in the most intimate way. And so, I sacrifice my inner child, give myself away.

109.

Kaeleigh My Inner Child Is sobbing, crying for her mother to please, please come home, stay.

But she is already leaving, well before dawn, as if to spend any more time here might chip her thin veneer.

Her footsteps fall subtly in the hallway, trailed by Daddy's heavy tread and garbled entreaty not to go.

The front door shuts emphatically.

I tense, count his paces. Twenty to his own bed, twelve to mine. One, two.

Three, four. Wordlessly, I beg him not to stop.

Five, six. Seven, eight. Please, go back to bed. Nine, ten. Eleven, twelve. Pause. The knob turns. Quick, before he can open my door, I scrunch my eyes, will my breathing to slow.

He steps inside, creeps to my bed.

I give a silent prayer that he'll believe I'm asleep, take pity, leave me to my feigned dreams, all the while preparing to give myself away.

110.

Daddy Strokes My Cheek His touch is soft as a dandelion, ready to release its spores.

I feel his eyes trace my silhouette, **

steel myself against what will come next. But the quilt doesn't move.

His lips brush my forehead.

You're so much like her, he whispers.

Why can't I just take it all back?

He crumbles on the carpet beside my bed. In the growing light, I slit open my eyes, watch his face **

fall into his hands. Tears stream through the cracks between **

his fingers.

Why can't I take it back?

Will you ever be able to forgive me?

Nobody answers. Not her. Not me.

Before long, Daddy's breathing evens, and when he starts to snore **

I slide out from under the blankets, into chill, Turkey-tainted air; tiptoe past his sleeping form. Away.

111.

Not a Creature Is Stirring In the house or out, as I slide open the door, step out into the crisp Saturday morning, **

biting back sudden teeth chatter.

The entire neighborhood seems asleep, not a single early-morning mower in sight.

But smoke trails zigzagging from chimneys **

belie the idea that I'm completely alone.

Someone's awake, despite the fact that the sun **

has barely risen. I'll be early to work.

Usually I ride my bike the mile or so to the Lutheran home. Today I think I'll walk, **

inhaling the clean of barely dawn.

Showered, made-up, and blow-dried, my body is almost as scrubbed as **

the daybreak. So why do I feel dirty?

112.

The Old Folks' Home Has a new arrival, one who has thrown the place into an uproar.

Seems William O'Connell is something of a ladies' man.

He's tall, or once was, having lost a few inches to stoop.

And, despite his years, he's really quite handsome, in an aged, Irish way.

Come over here, m'darlin', he invites, to no one woman in particular.

I'm thinking you're in need of a bit of male companionship.

His offer is met with a chorus of giggles.

Ah yes, it's a breakfast to go down in the history of the Lutheran home, one to be retold in whispered tales, passed around by these good (if lonely) ladies. Only Greta seems unimpressed.

Who does the man believe he is? Sean Connery? Now there's an Irishman worthy of consideration, she jokes.

113.

Unlike some of the home's guests, William is completely ambulatory.

In fact, he gets around so well, I have to wonder why he's here, flitting from woman to woman like a horny hummingbird.

I watch, amused, until it's time to clear the dishes. And that's when he finally catches sight of me.

Ah, such a sweet young rose.

Who might I be addressing, my lovely little flower?

For no discernible reason, my arms sprout goose bumps and my forehead leaks sweat.

I start to say "Kaeleigh," but my mouth clamps tight around my answer, squeezes shut around my name.

114.

Memory Strikes Suddenly Chokes me. Strangles me.